Shadowrun 46 - A Fistful of Data

by Stephen Dedman (v1. 0) (epub)

“N-no, m-mister, he’s—”

  “I didn’t ask you,” said the man darkly. “So, Dopey, if you’re not a musician, what are you? A dancer, maybe?”

  8-ball turned around. He was armed with only a knife, a small but sharp one that he’d made himself. It wasn’t balanced for throwing, and in any case the man was wearing ;i heavy sleeveless vest that probably had armor plates under the pockets. Before 8-ball could speak, the man fired a shot into the floor between his feet, causing the dwarf to jump.

  “Not bad,” said the man, firing again—this time hitting the floor a few centimeters from 8-ball’s right ankle, causing him to take a hasty leap to the left. The next shot, predictably, hit the floor to 8-ball’s right. The dwarf jumped again. The man’s apparent drunkenness didn’t seem to be affecting his aim, but 8-ball allowed himself to hope that it might have slowed down his thought processes. He kept a close watch on the beam from the laser sight as the man aimed at his face and fired again. 8-ball fell forward onto the floor, and reached for his knife. Six shots, he thought. Please let him not have a backup gun.

  The man squeezed the trigger again, and the hammer thudded onto an empty chamber. He blinked as though baffled, then reached into his pants pocket for some spare ammunition. He was still fumbling with the loose bullets when 8-ball hurtled down the aisle and drove the point of his knife through pocket, hand, and thigh muscle. The man yelled from the pain, and Joey snapped out of his funk and drew the Roomsweeper out from under the counter. The man stared at him, and then the front of his baseball cap and the upper part of his face disappeared, splattering the window, the shelves, and 8-ball’s bushy Afro with blood, splintered bone and gobbets of brain.

  “He shoots! He scores!” Joey crowed, then looked at his surviving customer. “You okay, chummer?”

  “Sure,” said 8-ball thickly. He retrieved his knife and wiped it clean, then picked up his beers and his taco platter and staggered out into the rain to his bike.

  He washed his hair twice that night, and once again the next morning, but it still didn’t feel clean, so the next day he shaved it all off.

  “And that’s how I got my name,” 8-ball finished. “Then I went and bought myself a Roomsweeper of my own. I never wanted to be in a situation again where the other fragger had a gun and I only had a knife, or even a sword. Since then, I’ve learned to use as many weapons as I can lay my hands on, from rocks to rocket launchers.”

  Akira shrugged. “I still prefer swords.”

  “I’d prefer it if we all had swords, sure,” said the dwarf. “But do you think fighting was any cleaner back when the katana was the ultimate weapon? It wasn’t. Life then was ... a lot like me.”

  “Huh?”

  “Nasty, brutish and short.”

  Haz had been conceived, born and raised in the fallout-contaminated wasteland known as Glow City, and was the ugliest individual the Hatter had ever seen outside of his nightmares. He was massive even for a troll, with heavy dermal plating encasing his huge torso, but the skin of his elongated head was oddly smooth, and there was something disturbingly childlike about his face and his tiny horns. His arms and legs were short, his feet and hands gigantic. His huge, wide-set eyes watered constantly, making the Hatter think of crocodile tears. It took him only two gulps to down I he bowl of soup that the Hatter had bought him, then he leached for the mug of soy beer. “Nice coat,” he said between swallows. His own outfit consisted of a tattered chemsuit poncho over a pair of shabby drawstring pants and an old Seattle Slugfest T-shirt. His huge feet were bare, and the Hatter decided he didn’t want to know what they might have trodden in.

  They sat in the back room of the Joke, protected from spies by the biofiber mats on the floor, walls and ceiling, and the Hatter’s state-of-the-art bug jammer and white noise generator. “You want the name of my tailor?” the Hatter asked blandly.

  “I got other priorities,” the shaman replied, thumping the empty beer mug down on the table. “What’s the job?” “Have you ever heard of the Crypt?”

  “The squat down near Hell’s Kitchen?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard of it. What about it?”

  “I want the squatters out of there.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “You get to keep the van that brought you here and whatever you can scavenge from the site—including the bounties on anybody who might be hiding out there.”

  Haz snorted. “Thanks for the food,” he said, standing. “It used to be a dump for medical waste,” said the Hatter quickly. “The shaman who lives there now has cleansed the site of contamination, but there could still be a lot of toxic material in the barrels lying around the place.”

  The poisoner shaman bared his jagged teeth. “Where I live, chummer, a few barrels of toxic waste is small change. You should come down there sometime. It’d make a man outta you.”

  “Like you?” The Hatter shrugged. “Name your price, then.” Haz stared down at him. “What if I said a dirty bomb in the middle of Bellevue?”

  Another shrug. “For one day’s work? Be serious. What about a vial of a new resistant strain of VITAS-3?”

  The poisoner’s mouth hung open for a few seconds. “Drek,” he muttered.

  “No drek.”

  “You really got it?”

  “Not on me, of course,” the Hatter said blandly. “But I can get it for you. Some friends of ours have been using it to thin out some rebel encampments. You can’t put up much of a fight, or even make a speech, when you’re busy puking your guts out. Of course, it’d be even more effective if you could put it in the air-conditioning unit of a building during, say ... a Green Party convention.” He looked at the monstrous troll, watching the doubt in his eyes being overpowered by an obscene mutant strain of glee, and barely managed not to smile at the toxic’s gullibility. “Do we have a deal?”

  “Yeah, why the frag not?” said Haz. “You’re probably full of drek, but I like the way you think.”

  When the meeting was over, Yoko led Lankin to the nearest empty room, which happened to be Akira’s, and sat on the bed, while Lankin hovered in the doorway for a moment before gingerly perching on the handmade kneel stool. “How bad is it?” the adept asked.

  “Worse than I imagined,” said Lankin, looking around at Akira’s quarters and his meager collection of possessions. The place reminded him of an emergency room cubicle during a power failure on a busy Saturday night. “You actually lived in this dump for how long?”

  “A couple of years, I suppose, if you add up all the time I spent here. I didn’t grow up here, unlike a lot of people: I just came here to hide, and stayed to learn. And you know that wasn’t what I meant.”

  “Our odds? Right now? I’m not a small-unit tactician. The dwarf would know a lot more about that than I would.”

  Yoko sighed. “Don’t play games. How badly in debt are you? And to whom?”

  Lankin tried to smile, but something went wrong with the procedure and he grimaced instead. “Drek. I can’t lie to you, can I?”

  "That never stopped you trying.”

  “ Touche. Well, if I sold the apartment and the car and the art collection, at market value, and to only one customer apiece . . . that’d take care of all but about a hundred thou.”

  Yoko’s face remained impassive.

  “Or two, maybe,” said Lankin. “A quarter mil, at worst. come on, Yoko, you know how I work. I have a run planned for later in the week that should net me fifty thou, md another next month that’s worth even more. And if I need to, I can sell everything I own two or three times over, for enough up front that I can cover most of the debts. I may even find another sucker who’ll buy the whole building; it’s worked before. Then I go into hiding for a while. If worst comes to worst, there are still some cities where they don’t know me, not that I want to leave Seattle, of course . . . unless you’d like to come with me?”

  Yoko ignored the suggestion. “Who do you owe?” “You.”

  “I’m serious.”<
br />
  “So am I. That’s why I’m here, Yoko-chan.”

  The kunoichi smiled insincerely. “I didn’t know I was that good.”

  “You were—it was—and you know I’d give anything to have you back. But that’s not what I mean. If it weren’t for you, my creditors probably would have killed me by now. None of them are really scared of me, but they know your reputation, and they’re worried that you might avenge me.”

  “And where did they get that idea?”

  “I . . . may have been guilty of some slight exaggeration here and there.”

  Yoko sighed. “If that’s kept you alive, I suppose I can forgive you that.”

  “It’s definitely helped. Most of my creditors know I’ll come good in the end, even pay the interest ... in favors if not in cash. But there are some who aren’t that patient.” “Yaks?”

  “Do I look that stupid? No. I check everybody I borrow from to make sure they’re not that well connected. Not that the yakuza aren’t scared of you, too . . . but I wouldn’t want them to think they could use me as the bait in a trap to get you.” He blinked as an idea hit him. “You don’t think that ork could be right, do you? About it being one of us that they’re after, not the place? Specifically, you?” “It doesn’t seem likely,” said Yoko. “It doesn’t feel right. If the yaks, or one of the corps, were doing this for revenge, they’d make it look like revenge. They wouldn’t bother being furtive about it. Just the opposite; they’d make it obvious, an object lesson.”

  “As long as it couldn’t be proven in court,” said Lankin wryly. “Where would we be without plausible deniability? But if not one of us, what could be here that a corp would want?”

  “Evidence?” suggested Yoko after a moment’s thought. “What sort of evidence?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe someone’s buried under the floor. Or maybe Sumatra’s partly right—maybe it’s someone here, but not one of us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If you had something that a corp wanted, what would you do with it?”

  “Call them and make a deal.”

  “What if you didn’t know what it was worth? Or what if the price you put on it was so high that they decided it was cheaper to hire a pack of meres and hunt you down?” Lankin snorted. “I’m not an amateur. I make sure I know what everything is worth to somebody. And I hide copies of any useful data and make sure that if I die, it—” He stopped suddenly.

  “What if you were an amateur? A beginner? Most of the kids here want to be shadowrunners one day . . .”

  “I can see why,” said Lankin, looking around the cubicle. His closet was at least half as large again, and smelled much better. “You think one of them might have stolen something that’s worth a lot more than they know?”

  “Stolen or found, or seen or heard . . . but yes, it’s possible. A pocket secretary, a wristcomp, a micro-camcorder, even a chip or a material link . . . They might not seem to be worth much at first glance. The small-time fences these kids mostly deal with might not know what to do with I hem, but their owners might be prepared to kill for them.” “You want me to grill the kids,” said Lankin. It wasn’t exactly a question.

  “You're the expert,” said Yoko. Lankin had been one of Fuchi’s best interrogators before the corp had collapsed.

  Almost everyone comes into the kitchen at some time, and it’s the best place to hear who’s been doing what. But be gentle.”

  “Of course.” He stood, still keeping his head bowed.

  What do you do in this place if you catch them stealing from each other?”

  “Depends what you mean by stealing. People who come here rarely have anything more than they can carry on their body, and everyone soon knows who owns what. Boanerges has rules against hoarding food and drink; you can keep a small quantity for yourself, but anything over that limit is up for grabs. And if you take something and sell it without l he owner’s permission, and can’t make reparations, you’re likely to be out of here as soon as the court finds you guilty. But if you take something without asking, but return it undamaged, that’s bad manners at worst.

  “Of course, if you get a reputation for bad manners, it’s a good idea not to train in the dojo, because people might not pull their blows, and you might have to wait a long lime for healing. And a repeat offender might be ostracized, which around here is taken pretty seriously. Apart from shelter, the most important thing most of these people have is each other.”

  Lankin nodded. “What about sex?”

  “Maybe when this is over,” said Yoko, rolling her eyes, “but only if you promise not to get all possessive and monogamous again, okay?”

  “I meant, where do these people have sex? Privacy must be hard to find.”

  “Soundproofing is another luxury we can’t afford here,” the adept replied dryly. “The rest of it comes down to manners,” and suddenly she was off the bed, with the side of her foot less than a centimeter from Lankin’s chin. “And I’m one of ‘these people,’ and we think good manners are very important.”

  Lankin swallowed very carefully. “Point taken,” he whispered.

  The old multifuel minibus was audible from several blocks away on the deserted streets, and when Haz stepped out of the cab, he saw the orange lights of two laser sights sweeping across his armored torso. He held up his huge hands and bellowed, “Fedorov sent me!”

  The door of the Step-Van opened, and Wallace emerged, his gun still trained on the troll’s chest. “What are you doing here?”

  “Didn’t he tell you? This is the van the fraggers in there asked for.”

  “He spared no expense, I see,” said the mercenary sourly, as he looked at the smoke trail that had followed the minibus down the street. “Okay, step away from the door. Hartz, keep an eye on this joker while I check the car. Griffin, call Fedorov, ask him to describe the vehicle and the driver.” If he can, he added silently. He looked in the cab, then in the cargo bay. The minibus’s seats had been removed, though Wallace wasn’t sure whether that was to create more space for passengers, or because they were worth more than the rest of the rust-eaten vehicle. Every other nonessential component with resale value was also missing, including the radio and autopilot. A few seconds later, Wallace emerged, glad of the air filters in his helmet. No wonder the driver’s eyes were watering, he thought. “Griffin?”

  “The description matches,” said the rigger, over the radio. “He says he bought the cheapest big van he could find that would actually run. Got it from a junkyard.” “And the driver?”

  “That matches too. Fedorov says he lives there.”

  Haz smiled. “He said the squatters would be more likely to trust me than some guy in a uniform.”

  Maybe they will, Wallace thought, but I don’t. He wished Lori weren’t sleeping off her fatigue; he would have liked her to scope this guy out. “What’s your name, laughing boy?”

  “Haz.”

  “Griff, ask Mr. Fedorov if he got this joker’s name.”

  "I already did,” Griffin replied. “He says his name is Haz.”

  “Okay. Call 8-ball, tell him their carriage awaits.

  chauffeur-driven, with room for about a dozen economy-class passengers. No hostess service or in-flight entertainment.” He looked down at the wheels and refrained from kicking the worn tire, wondering whether it even had a spare.

  Griffin radioed back less than a minute later. “He says they’re having a meeting to pick the ones who want to leave. He doesn’t think they’ll need the chauffeur; in fact, they’d rather do without.”

  “Did Fedorov say they had to let him drive?”

  “No, not that—” Fine. Don’t bother asking him.” Wallace raised his visor and looked at Haz, who was singing softly to himself. They say they won’t need a driver, thanks. You can take a walk. Get a breath of fresh air.”

  Haz nodded, and continued singing as he walked toward the Crypt. A toxic spirit came racing toward him through astral space, and Wallace shuddered without knowing
why.

  The kitchen and dining hall made up the largest open space in the Crypt, but even standing room was difficult to find when most of the inhabitants crowded in there to hear Boanerges speak. The street shaman stood on the least rickety of the tables and looked around at the gathering with gloomy affection. “As you may have heard,” he began, Lankin, 8-ball and I have been trying to negotiate with whoever has bought this land. They’re not making many concessions. We have until an hour after sunset to be out of here completely, but they’ve also given us a van we can use to take anyone who wants to leave to a safe place, at least until this blows over. But only one van, with room for maybe ten people and their stuff. If you want to drive rather than walk, or take more than you can carry in a bag and can stand the sunlight, this may be your best chance to get out safely. Everyone is free to go if they choose, of course, but priority for the transport goes to young children and their parents.” He glanced at 8-ball, who climbed up onto the table beside him and coughed loudly.

  “I know it’s dangerous out there, but the mercs have asked that you not openly carry any weapons,” the dwarf said dryly, “so keep those in your bedrolls or backpacks; don’t let them see them. We’ll also need a driver, and possibly a mechanic, from what Mute’s told me about the van.

  The driver will be making a few trips, but the meres won’t allow him or her back into the Crypt.”

  There was some faint murmuring, but no one stepped up. “Okay, don’t everyone volunteer at once,” said 8-ball.

  An old woman in faded denim and polar fleece raised her hand. “If there’s going to be trouble, I’d like to get my children out of here,” she said, “but I can’t leave them in a strange place while I act as taxi driver.”

  Boanerges nodded. Angie Hotop, a retired grade-school teacher, had moved into the Crypt after being evicted from her apartment, and had fallen in love with the aboveground garden. Her “children” were not her descendants, but the Crypt’s entire preteen population. Boanerges, who had never understood why her pupils called her the I “Gravedigger,” wondered how many of them would go with her willingly. “That makes sense. Any drivers willing to go?”